Why don't the words pour out of my face
Why don't the pieces fit into place
Why does every passing thought erase the last
Why won't the motion fit like a glove
Why can't I just be immune to love
Why do I live in the shadow of the past

I used to let my pen take wing
And write about just anything
But if you don't like it, then how can I like it
I may as well strike it down

Why can't I simply set my mind free
Why do I worry that I worry
Why do I labor when I could be laid back
Why must I be a perfectionist
Why do I fetish the clever twist
Why should I get uptight and resist the slack